


Oh, the Places You'll Go

by danisnopeonfire



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Chaptered, Famous, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-25 19:12:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4972954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danisnopeonfire/pseuds/danisnopeonfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan Howell, an awkwardly pessimistic teenager with a passion for nothing, has always lived in his famous brother’s shadow—not wanting any attention or fuss. But when his family hires his brother a new agent, Phil Lester, will he help Dan to change his views on fame…and maybe himself, too?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Fame is a funny thing. It can simultaneously be the reason for someone’s euphoria or the creator of their misery. Whilst being one person’s successor, it can be another’s hamartia. It creates venomous concoctions filled with sugar-sweet ingredients and ships them all around the world in the form of gossip and lies and deceit. Friendships are bound together by it but then ripped apart faster than the experience could ever last—like a plaster healing wounded skin; it makes things better and seals all the cracks, but then inevitably causes more pain when it has to be ripped off. It evokes a sense of blindness in the world, jeered on by the obliviousness that we fall victim to as a result of being spoon-fed by the media. The lines between right and wrong become blurred and get replaced by red carpets littered with high heel marks, and ‘front page’ news takes a seat on the second page of every magazine._

_And I’ve had a lot of time to think about fame—I’ve been surrounded by it almost all of my life—but that fact hasn’t made it any easier for me when it comes to answering the many questions that fame creates. What is the importance of it? Why do we succumb to its influence? Who deserves to be 'famous’ and who deserves to go unnoticed?_

I nibble on the end of my pen as I look down at the start of my mangled attempt of an English essay. Blotches of smudged ink are littering my page to create the wonderfully professional effect I was obviously going for, and nothing is going  _right_ for me. This is the fourth time I’ve attempted to write something at least  _legible,_  but so far I’ve failed every single time I put pen to paper. Either things sound so hideously pretentious that I want to bang a hole through my desk with my own head, or I just  _can’t find the words_ to express what I want to say.

The most frustrating part, though, is that this essay should be a  _breeze_  for me; fame is something that is a big part of my family, so surely I should be able to write about it with my eyes closed. Or at least write  _something_.

But no. Obviously I can’t do that because this essay is due in to be marked in a few days and I have absolutely _nothing_ worthy of credit.

Sighing, I pick up the paper and prepare to scrunch it between my fist to throw it into the bin on the other side of my bedroom. I’m stopped when I hear my mum’s voice on the other side of the door.

“Dan? Can I come in?”

It strikes me as unusual that she doesn’t knock like she normally does, but I don’t have time to question it because she’s pushing my door open with her hip quicker than I can even mumble a 'yes’ or a 'no’ to her obviously rhetorical question.

I spin around in my desk chair to face her at the door and raise my eyebrows when I look over her appearance. She’s clad with her 'kiss the chef’ apron that I got for her birthday last year—quite ironically, but she hasn’t seen it that way yet—and her hands are covered in flour. She probably could have washed that off before she came up here, I note, as I watch her shake her hands to rid them of the flour, causing a light dusting of it to gather on my carpet.

“What’s up?” I place my pen behind my right ear.

She looks at me seriously for a moment, opening and closing her mouth a few times, until she finally asks me (and with an even more serious voice):

“Chocolate or vanilla?”

And this is when the confusion sets in. I stare at her blankly because  _what the hell does that question mean and what relevance does it have to me or my time?_ But then I look over the gloop-like stains on her cooking apron and the small amount of flour still left on her hands and it dawns on me.

“You’re baking cakes?” I query. She never bakes.  _Ever_. The last time she did was for my 11th birthday when she attempted to bake a Victoria sponge cake but accidentally added half a pot of baking powder and almost poisoned everyone with the soap-like taste that was produced.

“I’m trying out different recipes for tonight. Alex’s new agent is coming for dinner so I thought I should at least do _something_ ,” she explains.

Naturally, I stop listening after she says “Alex’s new agent”. 

What happened to the last one? No one told me he got fired. But I guess no one tells me anything about Alex’s career, anyway, so I shouldn’t be surprised. I tend to stay away from everything to do with my brother’s antics because it honestly  _tires_  me. I don’t have the energy required to keep up with his lifestyle and his career because it moves too fast for my terribly small mind to comprehend. We live in the same house, but we live in completely different worlds. While he’s out shooting various things in various locations for various movies, I’m at home working. When he tours all over Europe (and often farther than that, too), I spend my time reading about the travels of fictional characters because I’m too boring to leave the house other than to drag myself to college.

So yes, we’re very different indeed. It’s overly clichéd, though: the cool sibling vs. the not-so-cool sibling.

“What happened to his last agent?” I finally ask after realising that I must have been silent for a good few moments. I have a tendency to do that when I inwardly discuss things with myself and it drives everyone I know _crazy_. I’m approximately 95% sure that my friends are still only friends with me out of sheer pity because they know that if they left me I would probably make no efforts to find new friends on account of the fact that I’m purely awkward. And the other 5% of me believes that they stick around because of my famous brother, so the math doesn’t really work in my favour.

“He just wasn’t the one,” my mum says nonchalantly. She’s said that so many times. “But I’m certain this one is.”

She’s said that so many times, too, but I choose not to comment and instead feign my most interested face. I don’t have the heart to tell her that Alex will never be happy with one agent. Monogamy just isn’t his style; he needs to “branch out” and try every agent in every agency he can possibly find.

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

“You haven’t met him, Dan! He’s wonderful and  _young_  and I think he’ll work wonders for Alex; he needs someone relatable to work with, someone who will understand him.”

 _That’s new_ , I think to myself as I smile at my mum with my 'interested’ face. They’ve never put this much thought into choosing an agent for my brother before.

It still amuses me how quickly my brother goes through agents. He treats them almost like new toys—becoming fixated with having more and more, just for the experience of having more and more. Kind of like Veruca Salt from _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_ , except with less tantrums and more business meetings. He has an obsession with periodically hiring and firing agents, so I’m certain that this one won’t stand a chance and will be out on his back quicker than he can enter our house.

“I’ll take your word for it, mum,” I tell her with a light-hearted chuckle and begin clearing up the pens and pencils on my desk into my pencil case. Absently, I ask, “So I’m guessing you’ll want me to make myself scarce this evening? You know, so you guys can talk business with Alex’s agent or whatever the hell you’re doing.”

My mum’s hand flies to her chest at this—it quite literally  _flies_ —and she gasps with her mouth agape.

“Of course we want you there, sweetie!” she exclaims in a tone I’m sure she doesn’t mean to be patronising but is anyway. “We’re eating as a family and that’s that. You’re part of this family, aren’t you?”

My groan is very much teenager-like when I realise that there’s literally no way of me getting out of this, and that I will soon be forced to eat dinner and endure awkward conversations with my brother’s agent. It’s like it all hits me at once—the multitude of epiphanies falling onto my head from the sky and making me sick with realisation.

I know she means well—really, I do—but sometimes I think my mum tries a little too hard to make me feel equal to my brother. Ever since his acting career took off all those years ago, she has been ceaseless in her attempts to make me feel  _included_. Every time a family member asks about Alex and his career, she will always try to finish the conversation with an update about me and my life. Honestly, I don’t know how she does it; there is literally _nothing_ about me that she can update them on, because I don’t have a thriving acting career and I don’t travel the world and I’m just not  _interesting_ , so she must have had to improvise so many times in the past. It’s quite clever, really. I’m almost certain that the majority of my extended family don’t really know who I am or care for my existence much. Most of my aunties and uncles see me as “our famous nephew’s brother”, which is fine with me because I never had a desire to be known. I enjoy the fact that I’m disregarded and I like it when people ask me about my brother rather than myself because I just don’t like that kind of stuff. I don’t like talking about myself so it’s always a relief when people are bursting with questions about Alex because it takes the attention away from me and my hideously monotonous personality.

“Anyway,” my mum starts as she adjusts her apron, realising that I’m pretty much done with conversation. “I better go back to the kitchen and help your dad with dinner before any more of our kitchen gets destroyed.”

I offer her a noncommittal smile that hopefully gets across the message that  _yes, I’m done talking so you can leave now._ And luckily she notices because she walks back out of the door without another word.

And it’s at this point exactly that I think  _screw you, Fame_. And I finish what I started earlier by scrunching up my English essay and chucking it into the bin.

 

* * *

 

Naturally, the rest of the day is spent napping and eating and trawling the internet with no amount of productivity.

I guess that’s one of the perks of being the not-so-famous sibling in the house: no one comes to check on you. You can pretty much live like a  _slob_  and it won’t matter because you don’t have interviews to rehearse for or personal trainers to keep up with. Again, that’s another one of the many reasons I pity my brother rather than envy him; he just  _can’t_  be a teenager. He has to do so much and be so many things to maintain the status he currently has. I can get away with burying away from my college responsibilities and ignoring my work because compared to the responsibilities my brother has, it’s literally  _nothing_.

Amidst my day of tumblr-browsing and eating, I had almost forgotten about tonight. I had almost  _completely_ forgotten about my brother’s agent and dinner and everything else that made me want to curl into myself and live out the rest of my days under my bed, so it’s safe to say I’m not exactly leaping around my bedroom and kicking my heels with glee when Alex bounds into my room to remind me that dinner will be ready in five minutes and that his agent has already arrived and is downstairs. The fact that he’s even talking to me  _at all_ is quite an usual paradox in itself, because usually we only communicate in grunts and one-word sentences. But this time, Alex is full of words when he pushes his way into my bedroom like a baby elephant—a toned and muscle-filled baby elephant that doesn’t really resemble an elephant at all—to tell me to come downstairs for dinner.

“Is he here yet?” I ask as Alex parks himself on the end of my bed excitedly. He’s practically  _bouncing_.

“Yup.” He nods. “Arrived about five minutes ago.”

“Why do you sound so excited?” I swing my legs off the bed and stand up to walk towards my mirror.

“Because this  _is_  exciting, Dan.”

“Of course it is.” I roll my eyes at him as I give my hair a once-over in the mirror. I’m not pleased with the amount of curls I currently have in it because they make me look like an eleven-year-old girl, but there’s nothing I can do now. Stupidly, I had left it to the last minute to actually  _acknowledge_ my appearance at all.

“You’re just bitter because, again, this isn’t about you,” Alex tells me with a smirk.

I roll my eyes again as I walk out of my room and start to head downstairs as he follows by my side.

“You’re right. I cry my days away wishing I could be as successful and handsome as you, Alex! Oh,  _please_ will you sign my phone case!”

Alex chuckles and mumbles “Shut up, loser,” and then shoves me lightly when we’re walking down the stairs. But his version of shoving someone 'lightly’ is highly different to my version of shoving someone 'lightly’ because he underestimates his own strength and almost ends up pushing me straight down the stairs and into my grave.

“Fucking  _hell_ , Al,” I breathe as I grab on to the banister to stop myself from completely collapsing in a heap of bones at the bottom of the staircase.

Alex just grins and runs his way down the rest of the stairs, leaving me to stare utterly dazed until I compose myself, straighten out my hair (again) and meet him at the bottom of the stairs. I’d shove him back but I don’t fancy my chances of not sustaining some form of injury due to his apparent  _colossal strength_.

As we walk towards the smell of cooked chicken coming from the kitchen, the first thing I register, before I have even made it into the dining room, is a young, male voice coursing through the hallway. It’s deep and Northern and is chuckling along with my dad’s distinctly croaky laugh. It seems to rise above every other sound in the house. The voice isn’t loud or boastful; it’s steady and clear. I don’t have too much time to ponder it  because Alex is walking straight into the dining room now, so I’m left with no other option than to follow him, resembling a shy child cowering behind their parent when they’re being dropped off at nursery.

“Hey, Phil!” Alex says nonchalantly to a guy sat next to our dad at the dining table, obviously in deep conversation.

The guy— _Phil, apparently_ —stops what he’s saying, looks up suddenly, and then grins at my brother as he stands up to pull him into the warmest embrace I’ve ever seen.

“Alex! How’ve you been?” His voice is even louder and cheerier now, and all I can do is stand awkwardly behind them as Phil pats my brother’s back.

“I’ve been good,” Alex says, a little exasperated, as Phil finally lets him out of his iron grip. “This is Dan, my brother.”

Alex grabs my forearm and pulls me forward, causing me to stumble a little as Phil plants his gaze on my face. Phil’s eyes seem to scan over me for a while but I don’t meet his stare. I can’t tell what he’s thinking of me and that’s quite possibly the most uncomfortable part of this whole thing. He has a terribly friendly exterior, but is that just him being polite? Does he really think that I’m pathetically awkward and is just making an effort to be nice?

“I remember you saying you had a brother,” Phil says warmly. “The quiet one?”

My eyebrows furrow as Alex breathes out an awkward chuckle.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” he says as he scratches the back of his neck awkwardly.  _Oh._

_Fuck you, Alex. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you._

Phil looks at me for a couple more moments as I silently curse my brother’s name in every language I know, but then he holds out his hand and says, “It’s great to meet you, Dan!”

I blink in surprise as I awkwardly hold out my hand (that is probably sweaty with nerves) to shake his.

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” I say politely and look up to meet his eyes for the first time. When I do, my eyes involuntarily blink with surprise and I feel myself almost stumbling backwards a tiny bit because they’re just so _blue_. I feel dumb for not being able to come up with a proper adjective to describe them other than  _blue_ , but that’s literally what they are. And my mum really wasn’t exaggerating when she said this guy is young. He can’t be much older than twenty-two at the most, which is _terribly_ young for an agent. Compared to the other agents Alex has worked with, Phil looks somewhat unprofessional and completely out of place. For starters, he’s wearing a tartan shirt and  _skinny jeans_ , which doesn’t really strike me as executive at all. And his hair—well, it’s obviously dyed black into the same style as mine. It suits him quite a lot, though. More than it suits me. He has the right complexion to go with it, and everything about his face just seems to coordinate perfectly.

“You’ll have to excuse Dan’s awkwardness. He doesn’t get out much,” Alex teases as he ruffles my hair. I flush red and break my small stare with Phil to look down at the floor, completely mortified.

Phil lets out a dry chuckle, looks at me once more, and then shrugs.

“Whatever. It’s cool. We can’t all be confident, right Dan?”

I look back up at him and smile. That was surprising. I didn’t expect this guy to  _bother_ interacting with me more than was considered necessary. And we had passed that mark a  _long_  time ago.

“Right,” I say with a strained chuckle as I glance to the clock in the corner of the room.

One hour. I just have to survive  _one hour_  of this awkwardness then I can finally leave and forget about the whole thing.

_Just one hour._

 


	2. Chapter 2

“This is wonderful, Mrs Howell,” Phil compliments as he piles more chicken into his mouth generously. “You’re a fantastic cook.”

My mum literally  _beams_ from the far side of the dining tableas she places her hand over her heart.

“Thank you, dear,” she says happily, looking more than pleased with herself as I watch her try to suppress her smile. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess within me to keep my eyes on my own plate instead of rolling them at how  _ridiculously serious_  she sounds. “But please—call me Jennifer. I insist. Mrs Howell is far too formal.”

This time, though, I’m definitely unable to hold back my eye-roll (and maybe an almost-silent scoff, too) as she literally somehow manages to defy all expectations I had placed on her by coming across as  _even more_ pretentious. 

The situation is only made worse when Phil smirks slightly, lifts up his glass, and says “Thank you,  _Jennifer_.”

I notice that my mum flushes slightly at Phil’s tone, but she doesn’t say anything and neither does my dad, who just lets out an awkward cough that has obvious connotations of discomfort.

The conversation that had previously been flowing around the dinner table easily (which mainly consisted of my parents, Alex and Phil talking about various auditions and screenings for Alex that Phil had looked into) had died down a few minutes ago, leaving a heavy burden of awkwardness in its wake. It seemed like  _every_ aspect of Alex’s life and career had been discussed within the mere twenty minutes we had been around this table, meaning that, naturally, there was nothing of any relevance left to talk about.

 It’s quite funny, really, because my family literally become profoundly  _clueless_  versions of themselves when they’re not talking about Alex. It’s like they’re programmed to discuss his  _very existence_ whenever they’re with someone new, so any awkward silence that isn’t filled with Alex-related jargon is just another spanner in their system.

“So, Phil,” my dad says politely as he breaks the silence that everyone had unwillingly fallen into. “Jen mentioned you were young, but she didn’t say you were  _this_  young.”

Phil chuckles as he takes a sip from his glass, placing it back down on the table slowly.

"I guess you’re right, Mr Howell—”

” _Alan_ ,” my dad corrects. Phil nods courteously.

” _Alan_ ,” he repeats formally, and I watch as he fiddles with the buttons on his collar like he would to straighten out a tie if he had one. 

“I graduated from university two months ago and landed myself a job with William Morris a month later. I must’ve struck lucky, I guess. I know people who have been after a job with that agency for years.” His voice is  _laced_ with the most amount of pride and confidence I’ve ever heard, and I can’t detect any modesty at all, no matter how many times I replay his words through my mind and analyse the tone of them.

 I guess he does have a justified reason for his overwhelming amount of pride. William Morris Endeavour is by far the most prestigious acting agency of all time and has catered to the professional needs of so many ‘big’ celebrities all over the world. Even my embarrassingly limited knowledge on celebrity culture doesn’t stop me from knowing about its significance, and I’m certain Phil’s just as educated on it, too. The ever-present glint in his eye and his permanently proud smirk is enough to tell me that.

 It really surprises me that a guy as seemingly  _naive_ as Phil would even be able to get such a job there. The agents I’ve met from that agency in the past have intimidated me enough to categorise it as nothing but formal and sophisticated, and Phil stands for none of those things. At least, that’s the impression I’ve gathered so far from his complete lack of formalities and  _age_.

My dad nods approvingly and his eyes narrow to become slightly more curious and intrigued, almost as if he’s prepping himself up for a structured interview that he’s ready to launch on Phil.

“You must be really good, then. We’ve been hiring agents from that agency for years and we’ve not yet been disappointed,” he boasts. Phil smiles with a knowing nod, as if he and my dad share some kind of secret and in-depth knowledge about the agency industry.

“Oh, I’m very good at my job, Alan,” Phil airs and this takes me by surprise. The sudden arrogance combined with the already-existing confidence that pumps into his voice is enough to make my fork stop in midair before it reaches my mouth. I look across at him slowly. My mum, dad and Alex are smiling happily but I’m just staring. “I believe that the key to a good performer is their agent. People need encouragement just as much as they do professionalism.”

“So you’re claiming that you’ll be able to motivate Alex?” my dad questions with an amused chuckle. He sounds utterly incredulous and doubtful; there’s no way he believes a word that Phil’s saying and I can tell he’s disregarded his idea already.

“I’d like to think so, yes,” Phil confirms positively as he ignores my dad’s obvious cynicism and subconscious ridiculing.

My dad laughs louder this time, the sound reverberating across the room and making mini ripples dance across my glass of water. I watch it intently and don’t dare look up at anyone in fear that I’ll be dragged into the discussion like I usually am. My dad has a stupidly frequent habit of bringing me into these things and demanding I express my ‘opinion’, even though I don’t have one because I just don’t  _care_ enough to donate the time to formulate one.

“That’ll be the day.” He sighs as he shoots a condescending glance over to my brother. “Our Alex is going to need a little more than an inspirational speaker to get  _him_ to work. He’s as lazy as they come.”

I look over to Alex just as the pain sets into his eyes, and watch as he closes in on himself a little. He’s staring down at the table desperately as if he’s attempting to summon it to swallow him under and take him away from our father’s torment. I feel so helpless in situations like this; I can practically  _feel_  my brother’s pride washing away from him and slipping through the holes that my dad’s words have punctured into his skin. It’s times like this when I forget about Alex’s fame and just see him as my older brother who I want to comfort and reassure and cheer up and tell that  _no, you’re not lazy; you’re wonderfully talented and our dad is stupid so please don’t listen to him._

But the atmosphere is too tense for that. I have enough experience to know that my dad isn’t really the biggest appreciator of being proven wrong or tested, so I remain silent as I softly nudge Alex’s leg underneath the table to let him know that it’s alright. He looks up at me suddenly and flashes a small, appreciative smile through his glassy eyes. I reciprocate with a grin and a sarcastic roll of my own eyes to let him know exactly what I think of the whole situation. In response, he lets out a silent chuckle and that’s enough to satisfy me that he’s feeling okay. _For now, at least_.

My eyes involuntarily tear away from Alex’s disheartened face when Phil lets out a small cough, breaking the awkwardly silent tension that was looming over us for longer than it probably should have. For a split second, our gazes cross and meet each other’s and I notice something flash in Phil’s eyes that wasn’t there a minute ago. It tumbles into his eyes like thick clouds during a violent storm, transforming the azure hues into grey smog.

_Uncertainty._

It’s only there for a second, though. For the time it takes to appear in his cerulean eyes, it disappears just as quickly, and I find myself blinking a few times to make sure that I was actually seeing correctly instead of believing some ridiculous lies that my mind had made up to deceive me. But when I look up at Phil again, he’s smiling confidently and he sits up straight when he says to my dad:

_"There’s always room for improvement.”_

My dad’s eyebrows knit together and he looks taken aback by Phil’s persistence. Anyone with the faintest bit of common sense would be able to tell that my dad isn’t used to being tested, so this conversation is literally _groundbreaking_ for him. Slowly, he takes a sip of his wine, and as he swallows, I can tell that he’s trying desperately to swallow his growing frustration, too, so that he can presumably keep his cool.

“I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.” My dad narrows his eyes as he places his glass back down on the table. He’s anything  _but_ careful about the task, so his abrupt movements cause a mini fountain of red wine to erupt from the glass as it collides with the oak wood surface and stains the previously pristine table cloth. 

My mum sighs and immediately begins dabbing at the stain with her napkin and it makes me wonder whether she’s even paying attention to this whole thing at all. Most of the time (like me) she switches off when things get too heated because the prospect of engaging in any kind of argument or debate is too tiring. Especially where my dad is concerned, which is pretty much all of the time. We’re just both the type who will do anything for a quiet life, so shutting up and letting people have their say is something we’re more than accustomed to.

“Alex has been through agent after agent, Phil. They’ve all been  _good_ —of course the have—but none of them have been  _excellent_.” My dad pauses and I look over at Phil discretely, slipping him a shy glance. I expect him to be biting down on his lip nervously or fiddling with his hands as a sign of defeat or at least be doing  _something_ to give off a hint that he’s anxious around my dad, but he’s not. He’s not doing any of those things, and in fact, he’s smiling even  _more_  confidently than he was before, if that’s even  _possible_. His lips are stretched out completely and his eyes are shining and his posture is calm, and I’m left wondering just how far this guy is going to go with the whole ‘confidence’ thing.

"You might have had only  _good_  agents in the past, Mr Howell, but Alex has never worked with me before,” Phil says calmly. The quiet confidence in his voice is almost  _intimidating._ I feel myself having to pull the sleeves of my hoodie over my hands because I’ve suddenly gone cold.

"And what makes you think  _you’re_ more special than any other agent?” my dad tests immediately, sitting up in his seat so that’s he’s practically  _gravitating_ towards Phil.

Phil’s smile doesn’t falter as he looks down at the table with a shake of his head, chuckling softly to himself.

"I don’t think I’m any more special than other agents,” he says amusedly, looking back up meeting my dad’s almost  _cold_ stare with his own warm one. “I’m just good at my job and I see no reason to be modest about it.”

My dad puffs out a breath as he leans back in his seat, looking hesitant. For a split second, I wonder if he’s going to argue with Phil further,  _pressure him_ into backing down. But he just shakes his head slightly, picks up his glass of wine, and takes a sip. The silence he leaves behind is almost  _painful_ and I find myself holding my breath because the slightest sound I produce will probably be amplified immensely and I don’t want to be anywhere near the focus of attention right now.

“Well, I hope that you can prove me wrong,” my dad says after a strenuously long amount of time. Phil’s smile just widens. 

Alex looks uncomfortable as he stares down at the table with a horrified expression of humiliation, and I really feel for him. Out of anyone, he’s the least used to being publicly criticised. He’s constantly praised and adored for being who he is, so having to endure being chastised by our dad is probably weird and uncomfortable for him.

Without saying anything else, my dad scrapes his chair across the floor and away from the table—producing an _awful_ sound as he does so—and leaves for the living room to watch yesterday’s football match that he missed because of Alex’s group acting class.

I suddenly become hyperaware of the clock in the corner of the room, counting its ticks because it’s literally the only sound to pierce the insufferable silence.

“Well,” my mum says quietly, turning to Phil with a meek smile. She begins to gather up the empty plates and forks, loading them onto one pile. “I think he likes you.”

Alex snorts.

“He was  _rude_ to him, mum,” he argues. “Just like he’s rude to  _everyone_.”

"He does that because cares about you,” she dismisses, ignoring Alex’s incredulous expression and attempts at protesting as she turns to Phil again with an even wider smile. “Would you like to stay for a cup of tea, love?”

Phil reciprocates the smile with a shake of his head as he stands up.

“I’d love to, but I better get going.” He plucks out a space-themed backpack from under the table and swings it over one of his shoulders. “Alex’s rehearsal is at 11:30 tomorrow, and then he has a screening straight after that on the other side of town. I still need to arrange transport.”

My mum smiles warmly at him as she picks the plates up in both of her arms.

“I don’t care what our Alan says about you. I think you’re going to be excellent,” she praises and Phil grins. It’s a different grin to the one he displayed when my dad was here; it’s more genuine and it actually reaches his eyes and gives them even more of a sparkle. It’s quite nice, but I don’t look for too long because I can feel myself staring and that’s the exact thing I  _don’t_ want to do.

I watch as Phil looks out the window and grimaces, his grin disappearing as quickly as it appeared. When I follow his glimmering eyes, my expression matches his as I notice the state of the weather outside.

_Rain._

Honestly, after living in the North of England for over seven years, I shouldn’t be surprised by its frequent downpours, but I’m still left feeling miserable each time they happen. I’m one of those people who claims that they’re ‘happier when it’s summer’, but I don’t openly admit that. Ironically, I’m really opposed to the idea that weather can actually dictate someone’s life and decide whether or not they’re going to spend the day moping or be extremely happy, but I still refuse to leave the house when the slightest drizzle is on the horizon.

“I don’t have a coat and my car is parked so far away,” Phil mutters to himself as he stares out of the window despairingly. He looks like he’s somehow trying to make the rain stop altogether with his dazzlingly intense stare, but it only serves to make the raindrops reflect in his eyes and make them look even  _bluer_ than before.

“That’s alright!” my mum exclaims immediately as she runs off into the hallway. I hear her footsteps grow increasingly quieter as she runs farther away from us, and I’m half-tempted just to  _leave_ and return to my room. The silence that she’s left among us is cripplingly awkward and I don’t want any form of conversation to be made because it will surely have even  _more_ awkward consequences. But my slow and quiet steps toward the dining room’s door are brought to an abrupt halt when my mum returns through the same door with a large umbrella in her hands and an even larger grin on her face. “Dan can walk you to your car with this umbrella!”

Phil’s eyebrows raise as he looks over to me curiously. This is the second time we’ve acknowledged each other all evening and I’m not sure if I can  _handle_ being on my own with the guy my dad just insulted for longer than five seconds. It’s embarrassing enough to watch my dad hurl insults at people, but it’s even  _worse_ to have to acknowledge their existence afterwards, knowing that they’re most probably judging me because I’m associated with him.

“Is that okay with you, Dan?” Phil asks after the longest moment’s silence I’ve ever had the misfortune of experiencing. His steady, azure eyes are on mine in a fixed and calm gaze, almost as if he knows what my answer will be before I even utter it. And all I can do is look back at him hopelessly, silently  _pleading_ that he understands that I really don’t want to walk him to his car because that would involve using the social skills I  _don’t have_. So of course that’s not  _okay_ with me.

“That’s fine,” is what tumbles out of my lips to fill the growing silence, almost  _immediately_  after I had decided that walking Phil to his car was most definitely not  _fine for a myriad of reasons_. And what’s worse is that my lips curl upwards to  _smile_ at him and he looks slightly surprised and perhaps taken aback, but he smiles back because he must be thinking that I’m trying to establish some kind of friendship with him. That is definitely  _not_ the case.

I take the umbrella from my pleasantly surprised mother(it’s obvious she wasn’t expecting me to agree so easily on account of the fact that she’s looking at me bizarrely like I’ve just recited every book from the New Testament), and we’re out of the door quicker than I would have hoped, the rain being the only thing to puncture the lack of communication between us.

Everything remains in a permanent state of  _utterly awkward_ silence as we walk down the unnecessarily long stone steps that lead away from my house, and I’m starting to feel like Phil got the hint that I wasn’t up for small-talk. He’s keeping his eyes well away from mine and he’s staying completely silent until—

” _God_ , your driveway is so long. It’s like an entire  _street_ ,” Phil huffs as we begin the trek towards his car, which he had conveniently parked right at the end. I breathe out the smallest chuckle at his complaint.

The tight space that the umbrella has shoved us together in causes my quiet laughter to bounce off the roof of the waterproof dome and appear to be louder than it actually was, causing Phil to turn to look at me with an amused grin of his own.

“You get used to it,” I say with a small shrug, but our close proximity causes my shoulder to bump into his in the process, making my ‘small’ movement much more noticeable.

“I don’t think I ever will. I needed gas and air by the time I got to your front door,” he mumbles with a pout.

“Try walking up and down it every day for college,” l retort with a laugh. “I don’t mind it but I’m pretty sure my lungs would tell a completely different story.”

“You don’t have a chauffeur or something?” He looks at me, intrigued.

I bite my lip before answering. He’s probably expecting me to live out the lifestyle that Alex leads and ride expensive cars with expensive drivers to expensive locations, but that’s just not the case. Telling him I walk twenty minutes each morning to take the public bus to college probably wouldn’t be the thing he’s expecting to hear, especially considering how pretentious my family appeared to be.

“Nah. That’s  _Alex’s_ thing. He doesn’t go anywhere without a private driver,” I say with a nervous chuckle, diverting the conversation away from myself in the hopes that Phil will remember that he’s not being paid to care about my life; he’s being paid to organise my brother’s.

He’s silent for a few moments, and when I gain the courage to look to my side to glance at his expression, he looks pensive and mildly surprised.

“And you prefer that? You know, not using private transport?” he asks eventually, his eyes trailing up to meet mine. They seem to flicker between each side of my face as I stare back at him.

“I’m not the famous one, remember,” I tell him. He looks between my two eyes for a few more seconds, looking like he’s about to say something, before he just chuckles to himself and moves his gaze away from mine to look at his pockets.

“You’re a funny one,” he says absently as he takes his keys out and presses the button on the car key. I hear the sound of it being unlocked right next to my ear and it causes me to jump because I had  _no idea_ we had reached his car so quickly amidst our small match of noncommittal comments and awkward glances. In fact, when I look around, we’re literally at the end of my ridiculously long driveway. We’d walked all that way without me even registering my feet  _moving_.

Phil ducks his head slightly as he moves from under the umbrella and stands near the door of his car, opening it. He doesn’t get in straight away but instead just looks at me as if he’s waiting for me to say goodbye first.

“Uh,” I mumble awkwardly as I twirl the umbrella handle between my two hands, having no idea what to say that would constitute a non-awkward depart. He just rolls his eyes at me with a chuckle.

“Goodbye,  _Dan_ ,” he says and starts to get into the car. He’s about to close the door and drive away but I stop him.

"Wait, Phil,” I mumble quickly, moving closer to his car.

His arm hovers on the handle as he looks back at me with raised eyebrows.

“I’m uh…I’m sorry about my dad,” I whisper, almost too softly for him to hear. “He’s too much of a dick sometimes, which you probably know now. But he took it kind of too far just then and I’m sorry—”

“Why are  _you_ apologising?” he interrupts, and the smile has returned to his face again but it’s not reaching his eyes this time like it did when my mum had complimented him earlier.

My eyebrows furrow together as the question hits me when I’m so unprepared.  _Why am I apologising?_ I guess the main reason for it is to make sure Phil knows that I’m not like my dad in any way. I want to maintain at least  _some_ dignity that isn’t soiled by him, but at the same time I feel kind of… _bad_ for Phil. He seems so ambitious and hopeful, and my dad just attempted to dash all of his spirits in one go. Obviously, he wasn’t successful in his attempts, but he  _could have been._

"I guess I just don’t think you deserved it?” I say over the rain in more of a questioning and unsure tone, feeling the water start to pour down harder over our already-difficult conversation as I stand shivering in my thin hoodie. I _need_ to start paying attention to my clothing choices before I venture out into the rain.

He looks over me for a few moments with a new expression. I can’t decipher whether it’s good or bad, but then again, I can’t see him properly because his face is masked by the large pellets of rain that are hurling around us.

“Go inside, Dan! Look at you; you’re freezing over!” He lets out a chuckle and then closes his car door. I blink slowly as I watch him wave to me from the inside of the car. 

 But before I can process the logic to wave back, he’s speeding away from me faster than I could ever begin to comprehend.


	3. Chapter 3

“Well. Don’t you look like  _shit_.”

The familiarly sarcastic voice of my best friend Mini causes my head to snap up from my phone, and I glare at him as I turn into the bus stop. I hadn’t previously been paying attention to my surroundings because I was pretty sure that I was half asleep and running on autopilot on account of the fact that I hadn’t had  _any_ sleep last night, so it's safe to say I’m amazed that I actually managed to make it to the bus stop instead of wandering off into the next town. Although, judging by the minutely small size of the village I live in, that wouldn’t be too hard to do without noticing.

Sighing, I sink into the metal bench at the bus stop. But, like always, the task is quite difficult because Mini takes up the majority of the already-small bench, leaving me perching on the end with a strong possibility of falling off. Honestly, I might as well sit on the ground when Mini’s around; it would be easier for both my comfort and my health. And again, like always, Mini notices the inconvenience I’m battling with, and says his usual, “Sorry, Dan! I’ll move up a bit!” as if he’s actually  _surprised_ that I’m having difficulty with staying on the bench. And what he really means by ‘moving up a bit’, is that he’ll attempt to shift his mammoth-sized mass a few millimetres away from me, only for the force of gravity to inevitably cause his weight to spill back and push me off the bench again.

And when the inevitable  _does_ happen, I stand up again and smile at him, shaking my head.

“I’ll stand,” I say politely. “Thanks, though.”

He sends me a look that says  _'are you sure?’_ But judging by the way he wriggles his large body into the bench to get himself more comfortable, I can tell that he’s accepted my answer without any qualms. I wouldn’t be able to sit down now, even if I wanted to. But I guess that’s the price you pay when you’re friends with Mini; you have to get used to standing up all of the time. I’ve been friends with him since we were in year seven, when we were both rejected by the school system for standing out too much and were bound together at lunch times when neither of us had anyone to sit with, and I’ve had the pleasure of watching his weight progress throughout the years. The name 'Mini’ came about a couple of years ago, and was invented by Mini himself when he decided that he wanted to flaunt his size instead of being silently ridiculed for it. I find that quite admirable about him, if I’m honest, but I’d never tell anyone that. Nor would I ever do something so eccentric myself. I’m just too self-conscious and boring.

“Rough night, was it?” Mini asks suddenly, smirking at me and breaking the silence. His tone is suggestive and I blink at him incredulously.

“Excuse me?” I mutter, scratching the back of my neck. “What do you  mean?”

He just shrugs his large shoulders and smirks at me knowingly.

“You just look tired, Dan. Like you’ve not had any sleep, if you know what I mean…”

“No. I don’t know what you mean,” I grumble defensively. “And I know exactly what you’re insinuating, Mini, but you’re wrong.”

He lets out a sigh of defeat as he folds his arms over his broad chest, looking genuinely disheartened. I just roll my eyes at him as I fumble for my bus pass when I see the bus rolling towards us, providing me with my escape card from the conversation I  _really_ don’t want to be having right now. Especially after having to contend with it for so long.

Mini’s about to protest, but he’s stopped in his tracks when the sound of the bus’s doors opening cuts him off, and he sends me a small glare as he heaves his body away from the bench. He flashes his bus pass to the driver and bounds to the back of the bus where our other (and only other) friend, Wren, is sitting.

“It’s gonna happen at some point, Dan,” Mini tells me in a sing-song voice as I follow him to the back of the bus, watching as he slumps himself into the confined space of the seat opposite Wren’s. Every day, he fits himself into the bus seat without failure, and every, day I’m amazed that he can manage. I make less of a song-and-dance about sitting down, and decide just to park myself into the seat next to Wren.

Just as I sit down, Wren looks up from her phone, her thick black hair falling in front of her face and spilling over her glasses, as she cocks an eyebrow at the lack of context she’s gotten from our conversation.

“What’s gonna happen at some point?” she queries, locking her phone and chewing on her gum, before blowing out a bubble that covers more of her face than her fringe does. It pops before it even has the chance to expand further, and she starts chewing on it again casually. I groan and bury my head in my hands as I anticipate Mini’s explanation.

“Dan showed up at the bus stop today looking  _dead_ ,” Mini explains, and even without looking I can tell that he’s smirking. “So of course, being his dearest friend, I thought it was because he had…you know…taken his first crucial step into manhood last night.”

I groan again and wriggle my head further into my hands, probably creating a white handprint across my forehead, but at this point I can’t bring myself to care. I love Mini to pieces, but his infatuation with me losing my virginity is something I will never be able to tolerate.

“Mini, I’ve already told you to  _drop it_ ,” I groan, feeling Wren pat my pat my back sympathetically. I lift my head up and look at him sternly. “Have you ever thought of the possibility that someone might look 'like shit’ because they’re just  _tired_?”

Mini’s eyebrows furrow together, and I can almost see the rust-infested cogs of his brain chugging and twisting to process my words.

“It was just an  _assumption_ , Dan,” he says calmly, making me feel even more antagonised. “I just want what’s best for you. And if that means getting you laid, then—”

Wren’s hand comes to a halt on my back as she interrupts Mini, and I internally thank all of the gods and the deities for her existence.

“Look, Mini,” she intercepts calmly. “We all want the best for each other, yeah? But clearly Dan’s tired for another reason. So let’s not make it any worse, alright?”

Mini lets out a loud sigh, and without any amount of exaggeration, it _literally_ feels like an actual gust of wind just blew through the bus.

“Fine,” he mutters dejectedly, and I whisper a small 'thank you’ to Wren. She smiles back, and suddenly, I feel a lot more calm.

“So, why  _are_ you so tired this morning?” she asks in a much less invasive way. I lean back in my seat and close my eyes, shaking my head slowly. I have no real reason to give for my tiredness, other than the fact that I was kept awake all night with thoughts from yesterday. For some reason, I just couldn’t get Phil Lester out of my mind, and that was irking me so much. Why, out of all of my brother’s agents, was  _he_ so memorable? Usually I just ignore every single one of them and do my own thing, but that doesn’t seem to have happened in this case, and the fact that I don’t know  _why_ has been picking away at me ever since Phil’s car drove away last night, leaving me standing in the rain for a good few minutes afterwards.

“It’s kinda hectic in my house right now,” I explain vaguely as I breathe out through my nose, choosing not to go into too much detail about the actual reason behind my annoyance. “Alex has got a new agent. He came round for dinner last night and…I don’t know. It was weird.”

I take a breath to continue. Mini interrupts me.

“Wait. You never told me his last agent got fired?” he exclaims theatrically. “I quite liked her. She was better than the guy before her—that’s for sure. Do you guys remember him? That guy called Dave? There was always something weird about him…”

I roll my eyes at Mini’s impromptu recollection of my brother’s past agents, but I ignore him and continue.

“I don’t know why the last one got fired. I didn’t pay attention,” I mumble truthfully, looking down at my hands.

Wren sits up more in her seat as she looks at me curiously. She’s always the first to pay attention to the things I say, and I figure that’s one of the things that keeps me sane. We both keep each other sane, I guess; being friends with Mini can be quite a strenuous job, and neither of us are willing to put in the hours alone.

“You said this new guy came round for dinner and it was weird. Why was it weird?” she asks, her voice sincere. It makes me smile a bit, knowing how genuinely lovely and bothered she is about my stupid problems. But then I’m reminded of the topic in question as she blinks at me slowly, and my thoughts suddenly turn grey to match my mood.

“He’s just…” I look outside the window and let my eyes trail over the moving streets as I try to think of a plausible explanation that wouldn’t sound too generic. “He’s just different.”  _Wow_. _Well, I sure failed that one._

Wren blinks again and shakes her head, trying to prompt me to continue. “Different  _how_?”

I focus my gaze back on her and shrug, biting my lip tightly.

“My dad didn’t like him,” I offer, looking down again. “But I think that’s because he’s quite young. My dad doesn’t trust him, or that’s what he made it seem like at dinner.” I try to remember the humiliating images of my dad trying to belittle Phil at the dinner table and then immediately stop trying to remember them.

“Was it really  _that_  bad?” she asks in a quiet, more understanding tone. Over the years, Wren has acquired that tone of voice to use on me and I’ve acquired the ears to detect it. It’s like a secret message of comfort that we both have—nothing explicitly said but everything felt. It’s quite nice.

“It’s  _worse_ ,” I sigh. All she does is nod in response at my vagueness, pats my back once, and then leans back in her seat. Mini does the opposite, though, and leans more towards me with a pensive look on his face.

“He’s young, did you say?” he checks suggestively, his voice growing increasingly hopeful. As well as being the largest person I know, Mini is also the most flamboyantly lustful person I know, so the combination often has…interesting results.

“Mini…” Wren warns slowly, sending him  _that_ look that she can only muster when trying to chastise him.

“What?!” he says innocently, placing his large hand on his chest and looking utterly incredulous. “There’s no harm in  _trying._ When can I meet him, Dan?”

I roll my eyes at his enthusiasm. That’s typical of Mini, always wanting to hook up with anything that has a  _pulse_ or the slightest sign of consciousness. He’s not exactly the most discreet person when it comes to handling his desires.

I shrug, watching as Mini’s hopeful face falters slightly.

 "I don’t think you stand much of a chance.“ That’s an understatement of an understatement, but I don’t want to crush the poor guy’s heart all at once; he’s managed to get everything he wants so far in terms of hooking up with people, but for some reason I can’t see Phil Lester taking too kindly to spending the night with Mini Denson. It would be like the BFG versus Stuart Little, only I’m sure Mini wouldn’t be nearly as friendly.

But despite my anticipations of Mini being remotely disappointed with my revelation, he just shrugs nonchalantly.

"We’ll just have to see about that,” he murmurs, and Wren and I make brief eye contact with each other, before bursting into silent giggles.

 

* * *

 

It’s only halfway through the school day, and I already want to go home.

After having had to endure an earful from Mr Pearson about not completing my English essay (for totally legitimate reasons, might I add), and listening to Ms Lawson drone on about the importance of turning up to the  _obviously compulsory_ revision sessions for psychology, and wincing as Mrs Sinfield almost drove herself  _insane_ whilst she tried to 'calmly’ explain to our Geography class that 'learning the correct case studies it the most important thing we’ll ever have to do ever’, I feel like I need a two-thousand year nap. Or maybe even an  _eternal_ nap. It honestly seems appealing right now and totally more beneficial for my health than spending another  _minute_ in the confinements of my school.

I slump down into our usual table at the back of the school’s canteen with a groan, feeling the accumulated stress of the day tense up once more, before spilling out of me. Wren joins me moments later, grumbling to herself about something that doesn’t even sound  _coherent_ as she angrily pours the contents of her lunch bag onto the table in front of us. She takes one of her two apples and bites into it aggressively. I take the other one as I listen to her speak.

“Mr Lightfoot is actually the bane of my existence,” she starts, her leg bouncing under the table. “I swear, if he drawls on to me one more time about Deuteronomy or Corinthians, I’m going to take his favourite Bible and—”

“Try surviving English with Mr  _Pearson_ ,” I interrupt with a groan, shuddering as I remember the class I’ve just come from that consisted of him taking his pent-up anger out on a class of unsuspecting students. “I swear we’re like some anger outlet for him or something. He doesn’t  _teach_ us anything other than to stay single because 'all partners will cheat on you’.”

Wren drops her apple to the table and buries her head in her arms, and I watch her with a pity-filled, understanding look. Honestly, I’m not too far off from doing the same thing.

“Why did I choose to carry on Religious Studies, Dan?” she groans rhetorically, sounding like she’s at breaking point. I don’t blame her. After having had to endure RS since year seven up until year eleven, there was  _no way_ I was embarking on a two-year course of it at college.

“Because your parents suck,” I say absently, and from somewhere underneath her arms I hear her hum in agreement. “And they made you take it because they’re highly domineering individuals who think that they can manipulate your intelligence by making you take stupidly difficult classes.”

She lifts her head up at that, looking at me with wide eyes. She looks like she’s going to say something in response, until she just sighs again and mumbles, “Your brother has it so easy. I wish I had a tutor who taught me at home.”

I hum vaguely in agreement. Although the idea of being taught at home doesn’t really appeal to me for obvious reasons, I can’t help but agree with her slightly. At least Alex’s school stress is nowhere near as severe or realistic as ours. He spends three days a week with a home tutor, and the rest of the week is spent focussing on 'furthering his career’. Although, I’ve never seen  _why_ he has to spend so much time sifting through all that kind of stuff when he should be focussing on an education or something actually  _relevant_. But Alex and I are polar opposites, so I guess that explains why we place importance on  _completely_ different things.

“Homeschooling isn’t all that good,” I mumble thoughtfully, thinking about all the things that Alex has missed out on that are just so  _normal_ to me. He was only twelve when his career really started to take off, and it was at that age when my dad decided to take him out of school and get him a tutor. He’s not stepped foot in a school since, and while he says he’s okay with that, I don’t think he is. Lots of his chances of having a  _proper_ childhood were at that school; he missed out on so much.

Wren looks at me for a few seconds and scrunches up her nose.

“I’d swap home-tutoring for this dump any day,” she says confidently, and I just smile at her. I don’t think she understands what she’d be getting herself into, but then again, I don’t think most people do either.

 

* * *

 

“So let me get this straight,” Wren says slowly, picking up Mini’s hand as I watch on with wide eyes. “He just  _wrote_ his phone number on your hand?”

All three of us stop walking outside of the school gates to crowd around Mini, who’s sporting a suspiciously large grin and an ink-filled hand jotted with numbers. Mini pulls his hand away from Wren’s clutch and cradles it to his chest lovingly, smiling. I know that smile all too well. It’s the “I’m in  _love!!”_ smile that Mini wears pretty much every day whenever another poor boy has shown the slightest bit of interest in him. Usually, it’s just Mini making something out of nothing, but this time he’s been given the phone number of Sam Rigby, the quiet guy in Mini’s drama class. No one’s really sure  _why_ he took A-Level drama, because I’m pretty sure that he’s never uttered more than ten words in his entire duration at the school. I don’t know him myself, but I know enough to decide that he doesn’t look like the type to be drawn in by the likes of Mini.

“Yup,” Mini nods, brushing his thumb over the digits. “He said 'call me’, and then he sort of smiled at me, but it was more of a nervous lip-twitch, and then he walked off.”

Sceptically, I grab Mini’s hand and squint my eyes to look at the numbers.

“Are you sure it’s an actual phone number?” I ask absently, counting the digits. They all seem to be there. “I mean, he could’ve just given you a random one—”

“Dan!” Mini exclaims, yanking his hand back and looking hurt. “Of  _course_ it’s a real phone number. Why would you doubt that for even a second?”

I just shrug and shove my hands back in my pockets, and Wren sends me a side-smirk.

“Anyway,” Mini huffs obnoxiously, looking between Wren and me with serious eyes. “ _I’m_ going home now to call Sam. And when he  _does_ pick up, I’ll be sure to let you losers know how amazing he is—”

“Hey Dan! Over here!” Mini’s dramatic monologue is cut off sharply by another voice in the distance. My head jolts up and I look around my surroundings, confused as to  _whose_ voice that is and where it’s coming from, until my eyes settle on a familiar head of black hair. My breath catches as I suddenly realise who’s calling my name and waving me over manically, and I’m sure the crimson creeping up my cheeks at rapid speed hasn’t gone unnoticed by my friends. 

_What’s Phil doing here?_

Although, a better question I could ask myself is  _what is Phil Lester doing outside of my school and why is he standing next to a limousine?_

“Holy shit,” Wren mutters when she realises where I’m looking, her eyes glued to the black car that Phil’s stood in front of proudly.

“Holy shit  _indeed_ ,” Mini agrees, his own eyes attached to Phil. “Who is  _that?_ ”

Phil calls me over again, his grin widening with each excruciating second that passes, so I start to walk towards him with reluctance. Wren and Mini follow closely behind me, both of them doe-eyed but for completely different reasons.

“Phil?” I stutter when I’ve approached him, blushing madly. “Wh-what are you—”

“I’m picking you up from college,” he says with a smile, standing himself up properly so that he’s away from the car. It’s only  _then_ I realise that he’s wearing a suit.

I blink at him a few times, trying to suss his motives.

“Why?” I realise my tone sounds ruder than I want it to be, but I’m too surprised to alter it. “And why have you got a limo—”

“Do you remember what you told me yesterday?” he interrupts softly, cocking an eyebrow. I think back to our brief conversation, before shaking my head. I honestly can’t remember anything. He chuckles to himself and smiles at me. “You said you’ve never driven in private transport before because 'that’s Alex’s thing’.”

My eyes go wide as I start to realise his intentions, and I scan the vehicle in front of me. People have already started to gather around us to take pictures of it, including Wren, who’s currently kneeling down in front of it with her phone in hand.

I meet Phil’s eyes again and he’s already looking at me, a small smirk pulling on the corner of his mouth.

“Is it yours?” I ask, my voice quiet as I reach out to touch the vehicle with my fingertips. I must admit that it’s really nice, even though I’ve never in my life shown an interest in cars.

“No, so hands off,” he says, his voice suddenly serious. I retract my hand quickly and blush again, looking at the ground. He breaks into another small chuckle at my reaction. “It’s a friend’s, Dan. He works at the car company we hire all of your brother’s cars from, so he said I can borrow it under one condition.”

I look up at him with a quizzical glance, biting my lip. “What’s the condition?”

He smirks again and looks at the car.

“I have to clean it.” He runs a single finger over the top of it and then brings it back to show it to me. An obvious amount of dust has gathered, indicating that the car probably hasn’t has a good wash in months.

“Are you serious?” I giggle, internally grimacing at how long it’ll take for him to wash the  _entire_ thing. Memories of Alex and I trying to wash our grandad’s small car come flooding back, and even then we struggled to get it done without taking breaks every ten minutes.

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “And do you wanna know the best thing?”

“What’s that?” I ask with a challenging gaze.

“You’re going to help me,” he says simply. My chuckles stop and I look at him again, finding no hints that he’s joking.

“Phil, I—”

“Come on, in you get! I’m doing this whole thing so that you can have your first chauffeur experience!” he says gleefully as he opens the door. “Look, I even got the suit and everything.”

I cock an eyebrow at his attire, my eyes flicking down to his shirt-clad torso, and then up to the small bowtie around his neck. I briefly wonder if the suit belongs to him, but I don’t have long to ponder it because I’m suddenly being ushered into the passenger seat of the limousine. I make quick eye-contact with Wren and she salutes to me with two of her fingers, before pulling on Mini’s wrist to drag him away from the scene. He’s looking back over his shoulder at Phil, and he’s whining something to Wren but I can’t hear what’s he’s saying.

Phil jumps into the driver’s seat after me and starts up the engine.

“You ready for the best ride of your life?” he asks dramatically, revving the engine a few times for show. I just roll my eyes at him as I buckle my seatbelt.

“Don’t you need a special license to drive this thing?” I ask, suddenly realising the sheer size of the vehicle we’re in. It’s got to be more difficult to drive than a normal car, and I can only hope that Phil’s experienced enough to manoeuvre it without getting us killed in the process.

“Probably,” he shrugs. He starts to reverse out of the small parking space and I cringe, my hands gripping on to the seat. “But do you trust me?”

And when he says that, he turns to look at me with his eyes filled with sincerity. And although I’ve never driven with him in a normal car, let alone a  _limousine_ , I can’t help but start to feel my iron grip on the seat loosen slightly as my head nods on its own.

I  _do_ trust him.


	4. Chapter 4

After having spent merely five minutes in a car with him, it turns out that Phil’s quite a reckless driver.

If I weren’t too busy gripping on to the seatbelt and trying to stay put each time he yanks the limousine around a corner or grinds the breaks each time a small animal comes anywhere  _near_ a one-metre radius of us, I would have maybe appreciated his precariousness. The way he goes about things is fascinating to me, and the more I watch and listen to him, the more I realise just how different we are. Phil acts as if every rule book in the world has been burned, so he lives by his own rules. He experiments as he goes along, finding out on his own what works and what doesn’t, what’s dangerous and what’s safe.

We’ve been silent for most of the journey, and I presume that’s because Phil’s been concentrating on the road. It’s reassuring to know that we both have a mutual desire  _not_ to be killed on this journey, but at the same time I can’t stop flicking my eyes to the side to look at his face, my mind filling with questions. He evokes such an annoying sense of curiosity from within me that I didn’t even know  _existed_ until now, and in the past two days he’s bestowed me with more spontaneity than I’ve ever had in my life. My mind hasn’t even had  _time_ to process the fact that Phil had turned up at my school without any warning, so I can only imagine how stunned I must look to him.

After a few moments of sheer recklessness and silence, we stop at a red light and Phil turns to me, causing our eyes to meet. That’s when I register I’d been staring at him for longerthan I thought I had, so I quickly tear my eyes away and focus on the gears. From my peripheral vision, I can sense him smiling to himself ever so slightly.

It’s only when the car starts up again do I find myself blurting out, “I didn’t even know limousines could go this fast.”

Phil lets out a delicate chuckle in response to my outburst. The sound blends in perfectly with the low hum of the car’s engine.

“You shouldn’t judge so fast, Dan!” he exclaims. “They’re amazing vehicles.  _And_ they can go much faster than this.”

I blink in surprise as I look down to see Phil pressing his foot down harder on the engine, causing us to travel faster for a while. But he soon notices my bewilderment and slows us back down.

“Sorry,” he chuckles, flashing me a sheepish grin. “I forget that not everyone who rides cars likes them as much as I do.”

“You don’t really look like the car-loving type, if I’m honest,” I tell him with a shrug, thinking back to the macho-like guys I’d been surrounded with in the past when Wren had acquainted me with her other ‘friends’. Phil looks  _nothing_ like those guys; his lack of tattoos and piercings is enough to decipher that without me having to look much further. “But you’d definitely get along with Wren.”

Phil sends me an unsure side glance.

“Wren?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “She your friend or something?”

I nod and find that a small, fond smile creeps its way onto my lips.

“My best friend,” I correct, and Phil makes a hum of understanding. “Well, unless you count Mini—but I tend not to do that.”

Phil lets out a small chuckle at that.

“And why don’t you count Mini as one of your best friends?”

“It’s quite complicated.” I shrug, chuckling slightly. Phil shoots me a prompting glance, and his eyes flicker over my face in a way that makes me squirm in my seat slightly so I sigh and continue. 

“Well, see, Mini’s been around for  _forever_. He’s kind of like that really old pet everyone has that seems to be immortal. That’s what Mini’s like,” I explain. I look down at my hands to find that I’d been gesturing with them eccentrically, causing me to blush and fold them back over my lap. Phil’s sending me side-glances every few seconds as I talk, and whilst it feels  _reassuring_ , I can’t help but stumble over my words the more I feel his eyes burning the side of my face. “We’ve been friends since year seven, and I guess I just haven’t been able to shake him since. We don’t have a  _thing_ in common, but we go back too long just to cut off our friendship. If you’d even call it that _.”_

After staying silent for a few moments, Phil lets out a slow breath, and I look up in time to see a small chuckle latch on to the end of it. His eyes are still on the road, but they’ve crinkled up in amusement.

“He certainly sounds  _interesting_ ,” Phil comments, and I snort.

“That’s one word for it.”                        

Phil smiles again.

“What about Wren?” he asks. His voice sounds sincere, and it reminds me of the warm feeling I get when Wren’s voice sounds like that. “What’s she like?”

“She’s…she’s kind of a lot like you, actually,” I say absently. “I mean, she loves cars, so I’m sure you two would hit it off immediately.”

“Oh, so cars  _aren’t_ so bad after all?” Phil teases. I send him a frown.

“Only when they’re not threatening to  _kill_  you,” I mumble. Just as I say that, Phil speeds up the car with a crooked grin on his face, looking ahead with determination. I just roll my eyes as I try to conceal my growing fear; if all forms of private transport are as  _reckless_  as this, then I think I’d rather stick with the bus and decrease my chances of being horrifically  _killed_.

After a while, Phil speaks up again. “Cars aren’t the only interest I have, you know. I fear that you’re starting to label me as the ‘crazy car guy’ or something.”

“You have other interests?!” I exclaim sarcastically, feigning surprise, my jaw dropping. “Just when I was beginning to think it was impossible…”

A soft, amused chuckle erupts from Phil’s lips, and he reaches out a hand to nudge my shoulder. When I look up at him again, I notice that the tip of his tongue is poking out of his mouth ever so slightly, further adding to his amusement and to the progression of the butterflies in my stomach. That’s the first time I’ve ever seen him smile like that.

“I’ll have you know I’m quite a well-rounded guy,” he protests. I raise an eyebrow, sinking back into my seat sceptically.

“Don’t tell me you’re a sports and fitness guru or something.“ My eyes widen, and Phil chuckles. He shakes his head amusedly and goes to nudge my shoulder again, but I dodge it with a grin.

"As much as I’d like to be, I have neither the motivation nor the  _stamina_  for that,” he assures, focusing his gaze ahead as I focus my gaze entirely on him; it’s like I can’t  _stop_. I’m scared that if I look away for a second, I’ll miss something,  _anything_. Something about him is too contagiously spontaneous for me to be able to look away and focus on whatever scenery is flashing past us, and instead my eyes just remain in a constant fixture that seems to be irreversible.

After a few moments, I ask, “So what  _are_  your other interests, then?”

Phil hesitates. He moves his hand to the clutch and pulls it forward.

“Well, as much as I’d love to share my life story with you, Mr Howell,” he says with a grin as he looks through the rear-view mirror. “My work here is done.”

I’m immersed in confusion for a few seconds when he says that, until I watch him pull out the car keys. When I look up and out of the window, the uncomfortably familiar view of my house is in my line of vision, and I let out a quiet sigh. 

We’re home already.

“That was quick,” I mutter as I follow Phil out of the car, slinging my school bag over my shoulder light-heartedly.

Phil notices the melancholy tone in my voice almost instantly, so he flashes me a small smile and bumps our shoulders together reassuringly as we walk towards my front door. 

Alex is sat on the front steps outside of the house when we walk towards him, staring down at his phone screen with a blank expression. I look to Phil in confusion, but he doesn’t look back at me.

“Why are you outside?” I ask as I approach him, and I chuckle as he looks up at me suddenly, as if he’s just woken up from a coma or something.

“Oh, hello to you, too,” he mumbles miserably, not bothering to supply me with an answer. “How was school?”

Okay, well now I know that something’s  _definitely_  up; Alex  _never_ asks me about school. I’m pretty sure that half of the time he forgets that I even  _go_ , because he’s just so wrapped up in his own life to donate any time to mine.

“Why are you asking me about school?”

“School is important, Dan.”

“Oh, yeah?” I laugh, folding my arms. “Since when?”

Alex sighs and locks his phone, looking up at me with mild annoyance.

“Since  _always_ ,” he huffs, beginning to stand up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I need to borrow  _my_ agent or I’m going to be late.”

He bustles past me with a smile and I just roll my eyes at him, making an effort to stand back a couple paces so that if he decides to shove me, he’ll have a smaller chance of breaking one of my limbs.

“Where are you going?” I ask as I watch him put his coat on. He sends Phil a small glance.

They exchange looks for a few moments before Alex eventually says, “I can’t tell you.”

I frown and open my mouth to protest, feeling utterly left out. Since when has Alex stopped telling me where he’s going? He’s never been  _this_  secretive, despite his drama-seeking tendencies that would strongly suggest otherwise. If anything, he’s always been the type to  _boast_  about where he’s going—constantly dancing and singing around the house when he’s going to be on live TV, and making an effort to call each one of our family members to make sure they’re up to date with his career whenever the  _slightest_  thing happens.

I’m about to speak, but the rumble of a car engine drawing closer towards us interrupts me, and I look up to see a black Mercedes Benz rolling its way up our long driveway. The chauffeur that usually drives Alex around everywhere—I think his name’s Edward, but I’ve never taken the time to learn it—is waiting patiently in the driver’s seat, and Alex sends me a small grin.

“See you around, loser,” he says, punching my shoulder lightly. Although, it was actually anything  _but_ ‘light’, and I’m approximately 97% sure I’ll wake up with a bruise to nurse tomorrow. “Have fun with your homework or whatever it is you spend your time doing.”

I scowl at the back of his head as he walks away and jumps into the back of the car. Phil sends me an awkward, apologetic smile, and I sigh in response.

“I promise you’ll find out what he’s doing soon,” he whispers, reaching out to brush my sore arm. “Your dad’s just gone a bit nuts with keeping things under wraps until we have more knowledge. I wouldn’t want to risk getting on his bad side right now.”

I let out a small chuckle and shake my head, feeling my scowl diminish completely under Phil’s warm gaze.

“Whatever it is, I don’t want to know,” I mumble truthfully, having decided a long time ago that everything is  _easier_ when I stay as far away from Alex’s career as possible. Our worlds clash too violently for us to ever begin to understand one another.

“Good choice,” Phil replies, sending me a reassuring wink. He retracts his hand from my arm after squeezing it once, before walking to join Alex in the car. I can’t even  _see_  my brother through the tinted windows, but I know him well enough to imagine that he’s probably just staring right down at his phone, so the view wouldn’t be too interesting.

Phil, however, has stopped right outside of the vehicle with his hand on the door, looking back at me curiously. He looks like he’s about to say something interesting or somewhat  _helpful_ , so I look back at him with hopeful eyes.

“The limo,” he calls to me, his voice steady. “It still needs cleaning. You don’t mind cleaning it on your own, do you? You’d be doing me a huge favour.”

My eyes lose the hope they were clouded over with, and the reality of the situation comes crashing down around me in heavy meteors. I should have known better than to think Phil, my  _brother’s agent_ , would have wasted his time cleaning a stupid limousine with me when he could be doing more important things—the things he’s actually _paid_  to do. I trace my eyes over the vehicle we were in merely ten minutes ago, and it feels light-years away; it feels as if any trace of a  _normal_  conversation we had has been wiped from the earth, and will soon be cleaned away with the hose and sponge.

Phil’s still looking at me expectantly when I look back at him, so I, being the  _pushover_ I am, nod and whisper a small, “Sure.”

“Great!” he exclaims with a grin, and he hops into the car and closes the door behind him. And as it drives away, Phil rolls down the window and calls to me, “I owe you one!”

But I’m too busy watching our worlds drift farther and farther apart with each roll of the car’s wheels to process his words.


	5. Chapter 5

The evening passes by in an agonising, uneventful series of nothingness.

My parents, like most nights, came home late from work, meaning I had to cook and eat dinner on my own. Having a large kitchen is great when there are actually people present to fillit, but something about eating there alone, with the unrelenting tickof the clock and the occasional clink of my cutlery being the only sound to penetrate the loneliness, feels somewhat exhausting. I had only managed to endure two minutes of the torture before taking my Super Noodles and retiring to my bedroom.

"Dan?" Wren's voice is about two octaves away from cracking my laptop screen as she practically _screeches_ at me. "Can you just focus on me for a _second_?"

I blink away from my daydream and turn back to my laptop screen, focussing on Wren's pixel-y face. She's not exactly the clearest picture over Skype, but I can still make out the rising annoyance in her face that she's trying desperately to conceal.

"I'm listening," I say.

"What did I just say?"

That stumps me. I know it's _something_ about geography, because we've been trying to get the homework done for over an hour now, but geography is merely an umbrella over a myriad of topics, and Wren could have been talking about any one of them. I glance down to the open page in my textbook.

"You were talking about the Spearman's Rank question." I try to make my confidence overrule my cluelessness.

"Nice try." Wren drops her pen and looks like she wants to do the same with her own torso. "But we were doing Spearman's Rank ten minutes ago. We're doing drainage basins now."

I offer her an apologetic smile. "Sorry."

"Is something distracting you?"

I frown in confusion. "No?"

"Why do you keep looking out of your bedroom window, then?" she queries.

"I'm not looking—" My defensive retort is cut off when I realise _where_ my eyes are focussing. The limousine Phil had driven me home in is still parked outside, right where he had left it a few hours ago. And it's _still_ as dirty as it was when I had promised to help him clean it. Or, rather, when I had promised to clean it _myself_. I breathe out a long sigh of defeat through my nose.

"Are you okay?" Wren asks, confused.

"I promised Phil I'd clean his car."

Wren laughs. "Your brother's new agent has got you running errands already? Wow, he must be special."

" _No_." I fix her with a scowl. "It's the limo he drove me home in. He said he'd drive me home if I promised to help him clean the car, remember? But now he and Alex have fucked offsomewhere so I stupidly said I'd clean it by myself."

When I look back at the computer screen, Wren is positively _beaming_.

"What's got into you?" I ask.

She grins. "I can come over and help you clean it, if you want."

I let out a snort and bury my head in my hands. "I don't have anything to pay you with."

"I didn't say anything about money..." She laughs quietly, and I look up at her with an expression that probably resembles disgust, but I'm actually just _confused_.

"Why would you want to do that _willingly_?" I shake my head. "Anyway, what about the homework? You didn't seem to be in a position to just ditch it two minutes ago."

"Dan," she says, her voice lowering. "I'm not going to pass up a free chance to be up close and personal with a limo. The homework can wait. We have a free study period tomorrow before the class, don't we? We can do it then."

I let out a breath in lieu of any response I could have come up with. It probably wouldn't have been a good one, anyway.

"Fine," I mumble. "Make sure you bring the sponges."

 

* * *

 

It transpires that Wren had been considerably more excited about helping me clean the limo than she had  let on. When she arrives at my door, ten minutes earlier than we had originally planned, she's dressed head to toe in blue overalls, with a large bucket in one hand and a packet of _twelve_ sponges in the other.

"Are you just going to stare at me or are you going to move out of the way and let me in? This stuff's really heavy."

I breathe my way through a chuckle of disbelief and step to the side, allowing her to walk inside and practically _collapse_ on the 'welcome' mat.

"Twelve sponges?" I ask, glancing over her motionless body. I peer into the bucket she's abandoned and my jaw drops. "Wren! Why have you brought your _camera_?"

Wren lets out a small grunt and stands up, brushing down her overalls. She notices my scrutinising look and rolls her eyes.

"You can't blame me for wanting to steal a few HD pictures of the limo, can you?" she asks. "I'm like a moth to light!"

I roll my eyes back at her, grabbing the bucket and then her wrist so that I can drag her to the kitchen without any further qualms.

"You better make this whole thing quick," I tell her, turning on the tap at my sink and starting to fill up the bucket. "My parents are in the upstairs living room and I don't want them thinking I'm doing anything shifty."

"Yes," Wren scoffs, picking up a bottle of liquid soap. "Because your parents would be so _horrified_  if they ever found out their son was cleaning a car."

" _Limousine_ ," I correct, slipping her a side glance and allowing my pedantic nature to get the better of me. "And besides, it's _Phil's_ limo. That makes it even worse." I turn off the tap once the bucket's full and, with a shaky effort, pick it up.

"Please enlighten me. Why does the fact that it's Phil's limo make it worse?" Wren grabs the bucket from me when she notices I'm struggling and heads outside. I'm left to scramble for all the sponges she abandoned and follow after her with a frown.

"Because Phil drove me home in that limo. They don't know that."

"So?" Wren challenges, turning to face me once she's put the bucket of water down on the floor near the front of the limo. She takes a sponge and immerses it in the water, before expertly starting to clean the front windows. I feel pretty useless as I watch her take to the gigantic car like a duck to water.

"You know what my parents are like. Even though I spend the vast majority of my time up in my bedroom doing homework, they always find something about me to be suspicious of." I let out a sigh as I take my own sponge and begin cleaning the endless number of side-windows. We're probably going to be here longer than I anticipated. "I can't imagine what their reactions would be if they thought I was making secret transportation deals with their new _agent_."

Wren pauses and scrunches her nose up. When she lifts up the windshield wipers to start cleaning underneath them, her movements are suddenly a lot slower.

"It does sound kind of messy when you put it like that," she says slowly. "But I'm gonna be honest with you for a second. I think your parents are sick of you chasing away every agent that enters your house with your depressing teenage angst and bad attitude. What number is Phil on this endless list of agents? Like, ten? And yet, out of all those agents, you've not spoken to a single one until now." Wren puffs out a shaky chuckle as she strains herself to clean on top of the limo, making eye-contact with me from the other side. "That's really impressive, Dan. I don't know how you manage to avoid people like that."

I scowl at the back of her head as she moves to dip her sponge into the bucket, and I go back to cleaning my side of the car. I don't realise I'm scrubbing one of the doors too hard until Wren is suddenly behind me, grabbing my wrist.

"Careful, Dan. You're going to scratch it if you exert too much pressure."

I ignore her, despite the obvious desperation in her voice, and carry on scrubbing with the dirty sponge, focusing on one speck of mud that seems to be _super-glued_ to the car. Why did Phil have to choose the dirtiest car he could find? Why did he have to drive me _home_ in the first place? Why did I accept the invitation and take the bait? Why did I have to _enjoy_ his company so much? Why did I have to feel _disappointed_ when he left? And why on _earth_ did I offer to clean this _stupid_ car?

Suddenly, I bang my fist against the side of the vehicle when no answers come to all my unresolved questions. Wren sighs and takes the sponge from my hand. I contemplate stopping her, for my pride's sake, but  choose not to.

"Dan," she repeats, her voice softer this time. "Your parents are definitely going to suspect something's going on if they get a fine for a damaged limousine through their door."

Although it agonises me to admit it, she has a point. That would definitely be more difficult to explain than me actually cleaning the limo in the first place. Reluctantly, I take a few steps away from the offending vehicle and stare down at the ground, trying to steady my breathing and remove it from the erratic state it's currently in. I can feel Wren's tentative gaze on my face, but it's obvious she's not going to say something before I do.

"I didn't realise it'd be so difficult to clean," I mumble, keeping my eyes fixed on my shoes as I push them around the dirt and gravel beneath me.

"Well, _duh_. This is going to take significantly longer to clean than a bike," she says. I don't need to look up to realise that she's smiling; the imperceptible, feather-light edge to her tone is enough to show me her humour. And it's almost enough to make me smile myself, but something about my current predicament is weighing too heavy on my thoughts for me to be able to do that. "Come on, Dan. It won't take long at all if we get through it together."

Her tone gets impossibly sweeter when she says that, and I find myself rolling my eyes as I look up to face her.

"Your optimism is so _annoying_ ," I grumble.

Wren beams at me. "My optimism is making progress."

"It's making me gag," I correct her, but I can't stay serious for longer than two seconds because she's suddenly grinning and throwing a saturated sponge at my face.

"Come on," she repeats, softly placing her hand on my forearm and letting it trail down until it reaches my hand, and she links our fingers together tightly. She pulls on our hands a bit and looks up at me as she says, "Let's split the load, okay? I'll clean the outside of the car while you polish the inside."

Her voice is so mellow and her motives are so sincere that all I can do is grin. I almost forget to give her an answer because I'm smiling so hard.

"Okay," I reason, letting go of her grip to climb inside the car. "But I still don't know why you're helping me."

"Because you're my best friend," she says nonchalantly. She picks up the sponge she'd thrown at me and continues cleaning the front windows. After a few short moments, she looks at me again. "And also because I really fucking love cars."

This time it's me who launches a sponge at her.

 

* * *

 

It's completely dark outside by the time we've finished cleaning.

Wren's face is almost as black as her hair when she emerges from under the car, completely covered in oil and mud. I don't even try to hold back my laughter as she shoots me a disdainful look.

"It's nice to see you've kept your hands clean, princess," she mumbles, wiping her own hands on her overalls as I lean back comfortably into the front seat of the car.

"Hey, I'm not the car-lover, remember? You should be getting off on this."

Wren smiles at me sarcastically. "Funnily enough, I'm not. And I don't think I've seen you lift a finger yet."

"I have!" I exclaim defensively, gesturing around the limousine's interior to show her that I've polished everything inside. "You could eat your dinner off these surfaces."

"Hmm." Wren scrunches her nose up as she examines the car. "I'm gonna need your help, though. I think something's stuck in the exhaust pipe but I can't see it. Can you check to see if there's a torch or something in the glove compartment?"

I nod and search the large dashboard for a glove compartment. Once I've located it, which proves to be a sufficiently difficult task in the dark and involves me banging my head a lot on random surfaces, I open it and start to rummage around inside. All I'm greeted with is an endless amount of letters and flyers. Frowning, I start to pull them all out so that I can see if there's a torch behind them. However, my naturally clumsy nature is having other ideas, because as soon as I've gathered all the letters into a pile, I end up dropping them all over the floor.

"Oh for fuck's _sake_ ," I grumble, beginning to pick them up.

As I lean down to gather them together, I notice that one particular letter has dropped on my lap. And it's addressed to a particular _person_. My eyebrows knit together tightly as I re-read the recipient's name a few times to make sure my mind's not deceiving me.

_Why is there a letter addressed to my brother in Phil's car?_

I'm about to unfold it to quench my curiosity, but Wren interrupts me before I get the chance.

"Not to be pushy or anything, but I really do need a torch!" she calls.

Quickly, I stuff the letter in my pocket and take in a deep breath. There's a torch right at the back of the glove compartment, and I grab it with a sigh.

The letter will have to wait.

 

* * *

 

I must have read over it at least twenty times. The first paragraph, particularly the first _sentence_ , seems to have been ingrained into my mind like clockwork. All I can do is stare down in awe at what I'm reading and wonder _why_ I've only just found out about it.

_Dear Alex,_

_It is with great pleasure that we write to you today to invite you to come back for a second audition for the movie 'Skipping Eventualities'. We were delighted with your initial performance and would love to see more of you!_

_Yours faithfully,_

_Skyline Productions._

Any guilt I could be feeling right now about reading Alex's mail is overruled by shock.

_Alex got a call-back for an audition?_

My heart feels like it's on the cusp of beating, but every time it gets close, it stops and misses. _Alex got a call-back for an audition._ This has happened many times in the past. I should be _used_ to it, but somehow everything feels amiss, as though normal events have misplaced themselves and reorganised in the wrong order.

If Alex auditioned for a movie, why did no one tell me about it?

That's definitely not right. Alex is hopeless when it comes to keeping secrets and withholding information. It's like he believes it's his personal duty to tell the universe everything about his life. And my _parents_. They're just as bad, if not worse; my mum's pride for Alex could easily be spotted from miles away, and my dad never passes up on a free opportunity to boast.

So _why_ have I only just found out about this now?

I fold the letter back up and place it on my lap, leaning back on the couch and staring up at the high ceiling. My living room is quiet at this time of night, when my parents have gone to bed and Alex is out doing God knows _what_. It's completely dark too, apart from the occasional flicker of the TV in the corner of the room, but I stopped paying attention to that hours ago.

Just as I'm about to close my eyes to find solace in the silence, the sound of a car door closing and two voices chatting interrupts me. _Alex and Phil_ _are back_. They sound happy and excitable as they draw closer to our house, and I don't think I have it in me right now to greet them with the same amount of enthusiasm. Quickly, I grab the letter and head out of the living room, making a dash for the stairs so I don't have to talk to them. I just about manage to make it and hide in my bedroom, closing the door behind me and leaning against it. They talk for a few minutes and I make no effort to try and listen to what they're saying; there's no _point._

When I hear the front door close, I wait for a few moments, before tiptoeing to my bedroom window. As I look outside, I can see Phil walking towards the limousine, but he doesn't get in it straight away. He's just standing there, staring at the vehicle in front of him. I can't see him properly, but there seems to be a smile on his face, and I'm inwardly cursing myself for allowing it to tug on my heartstrings.

Suddenly, as if he can  _sense_  me watching him, he turns around and stares at me. We look at each other for a while, just quietly trying to suss out who should break whatever state we've fallen into, until Phil points to the limo and smiles. He mouths a small ' _thank you_ ', barely even noticeable but completely visible to me because I'm staring so intently, and I just smile back.

He finally gets in the limo and I don't stay to watch him drive away. I'm already far too acquainted with that sight.


End file.
